Joseph M. Gerace
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>ceramic, erratic bleats
>making love to the noisehalf-so-sharp, what yr allowed to hearbut the secret is soft, personal edges& quick-legged, leggy, we studybecause we must our histories made & ourculture, our quick-histories makingthe sounds repeating, mostly metallic ghostsceramic, erratic bleats, patternless repeatingpuddled cups of light over the racing pigsburn and hiss and sizzle, blip, nothing bigpatternless, bang & hapless…
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>Oh
>What am i running for? Where to?Yes, to catch the bus and all, butWhy? I can’t get drunk anymoreThese ferrets munch my bed, my Oh, my mailman’s a piss less than dead. What’s the point, and where’s there to learn?So, I’ve resolved to sing-a-long to the streetGive up the fight, bound to pick up its…
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>crazy girl
>turns away, smiling and afraid? how strongare those skinny legs, pogoing mossy hillssuch pure cane sugar and round classical wale can you see her now? dimpled aspect & exploited reflections dancing onface so vivid, banking hermetic perfections offthe neon (choose, it makes you bigger) walls erase concavity, release it, swept underthe rug & tectonic how you movein the…
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>Scene 1: Speeding atop commuter subway, backwards, uncompromisingly peaceful
>The candy flowers fall from somewhere P cannot seeThis image he has also stolenLong ago, as well as the ideaHe rides the speedy thing backwards& in the mornings, everyone at angles janglingFor their morning seat, how he laughedTo himself, like there was someone withinEarshot to receive his hypothetically boisterous laughterBut he would ride them backwardLike, he…
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>Skylight
>Too many tired cop cars filled with tired copsHands spread over buzz-cuts or grazing myPapers, some other day’s work, filthy littleCamera tricks cheapen real color& the near-white screen, resolution so radicalSo high now, for what? Black tire after black tire On parade, irony manicured and concaveWith privilege assuming their cult, a fraternal wallJust. Just as. Just, as I…
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>improv for the problems, the playoffs & the plumbing
>He got hit, helmet to his blindsideAnd crumbled for some other purposeWeek-old Italian bread crushed over fresh greens His mind, momentarily jellied, babied, pureeProjects a shushing squirt of hot butter, candiedProphesying and rhythmic luster lock Look up, from the pain and clapped passionsLickable bright, Airbus A380 streaming through the skyCotton and confetti now, a graffiti of…
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>improv for drawn sources
>The river never waitsCutting, though many otherNames exist, rock and bonePollute the pure, Season’sUnwashed hands deign pietyEvery stoic stroke wears awayEach push a fresh argumentOne hesitates suggesting fireBut Frost, these things movingA child pressed to crawlWill crawl upon your turningThrough ears, the river neverWaits and morals never makes.
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>improv for central nodes
>The death tollIs unknown, no manCan lift such heavinessMerely observingOne must becomeHis hyperthrobbing heartOne must becomeLarge and liftAnd lift, howHigh will you imagineThe death toll rises.
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>George Plimpton Headache
>I am sure I will die young hammerbang hammerbash hammCrackWhat cruel carpenter makes love only near the reclinedAnd I know, George Plimpton was never kidnappedIn the packed back seat of a Bentley carThought having read his obituary I preferPhilip and his pounding contrast, its striation…
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>Hyphen, Mustela
>How that lip gloss returnedyour step-down’s thick honeyed haze& i enter, cut-uppictures in hand-built frames, hand-me-downtable & a glass bowl for keys: It was hereyou mentioned the needlestuck in yr best friend’s armhis sad soundtrack personanon grata; up at the podiumin yr house slippers, nudean audience adorned: At the stolen breakfast booth inyr railroad kitchenette, baptized&…
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